Give me the list
by lizzieBdarcy
Summary: Mycroft was indeed "The Iceman", to almost all who knew him. Except for his younger brother. It's this caring that pushes him to keep track of all Sherlock's habits- even the deadly ones. Sherlock One-Shot DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING
Odd that a slip of paper could hurt so much. He had five of them.

The first came two weeks after Sherlock's 19th birthday. He was going to uni early, having long since gotten his bachelor's. He came out of the womb, alert and already cataloguing everything. As he grew older, he began to realize just how much information was coming in at once.

This would be his undoing.

As a child he would cry, the world was too loud and his mind never stopped. He knew things he ought not, could see how the milk man's eyes darkened at Mrs. Reynolds house right before he went in. Mr. Reynolds was unaware and so Sherlock told him, as honesty was the best policy and he must always tell the truth according to mummy. And though Mr. Reynolds thanked him very quietly, Sherlock could not understand why officers took him away. Or why an ambulance came at the same time and carried a stretcher from the house. He never saw Mrs. Reynolds again and the incident was soon forgotten.

Still, he continued. But people often try to hide what hurts them, what puts guilt in their eyes and shame in their walk. And Sherlock had no filters, as the information came in he must spew it out. Quickly he became an object of ridicule. And just as quickly, Mycroft stepped in.

That's what he did. Step in, pick Sherlock up, dust him off and fix it. Their parents were at a complete lost, for as much as they loved their son they did not see the world in the same color as he. They could handle emotional outbursts and tantrums and the occasional stony silence. What they could not handle was a 7 year old who saw all.

Every. Single. Time.

He gave him puzzles, gave him riddles and eventually a magnifying glass to study what interested him. Mycroft made certain there were always notebooks, textbooks and pencils on hand, even if Sherlock did not notice. When he wanted to be a pirate, he showed him how to draw maps. When he wanted to stop hurting over Redbeard's death, he showed him how to shut down. Caring was no advantage, it clouded the mind and complicated things.

People like he and Sherlock could not afford distraction. They didn't process emotion the same as others. If children were cruel now, adults would be infinitely worse. Mycroft had to teach him now, to protect him later. If he didn't, someone could break them. He may not survive. He knew Sherlock would not. They felt too much and he would not let it consume them.

He'd done it with the best intentions. Mycroft truly believed if he could teach his little brother to focus, to reign everything in, that he would be alright. When he went away to university, Sherlock was coming along nicely. He sent letters and emails every week. All was well.

Until it was not.

 _ **7 percent solution heroine.**_

 _ **Flunitrazepam.**_

 _ **Ketamine.**_

 _ **Hash.**_

That was what his blood tox screen read back. His parents had no idea how he'd obtained it. Sherlock was supposed to be on a class trip. Instead, his limp body was found in an abandoned drug den, more dead than alive. It was still unknown who called it in but then, Mycroft expected as much. He came back straight away to sit vigil alongside his parents, feeling true fear for the first time in his life. Odd that the memorable emotions were so often associated with his baby brother.

When he came to, their mother was all aflutter. She scolded, sobbed, threatened and then cried more. Their father said little but clung to his younger son's hand, as though Sherlock might slip away should he be released. And when, after a fashion, he feigned sleep and their parents went away for a quick cuppa, the brothers said nothing at all.

"Suicide?" Mycroft finally murmured. Sherlock gave a weak and mirthless chuckle.

"Don't be stupid."

"Considering _you_ are the body lying in this hospital bed and _I_ the one beside it, my intelligence is not the one which ought to be called into question."

"If I wanted to take my own life, I could have found a far more imaginative means."

"Quite. And yet here we are."

"I don't expect you to understand."

"And I don't expect you to avoid the question. Mummy has been beside herself and father not much better. What you've done-"

"Yes, yes. Nearly dying of an overdose, bringing shame to the family-"

"Do you take this lightly?"

With an unexpected strength, Sherlock sat up just enough to grip his brother's wrist. There was a strange sort of wildness in his eyes, tongue flicking out to lick at his lips. He did not shirk away from the pain he had caused. Rather he seemed to have forgotten it all together.

"Not at all brother mine. In fact, it's really rather marvelous. The world, it goes quiet. My thoughts come in a slow and orderly fashion, edges soften-"

Mycroft yanked his hand away, fear increasing. He knew that look, it was the same Sherlock had when discovering a new fixation.

"Do you mean to tell me-"

"Finally, all aligns Mycroft. My mind can clear and rest, it's sublime."

"Sherlock, you must listen to me-"

"No, I musn't. Yes, this was a close call but i've had them before. I know now my limits-"

"This is _madness-_ "

"This is brilliance! It's christmas, the very best present I could have ever hoped for."

There was no stopping him, Mycroft was quite sure of that. He was unaccustomed to lack of control and yet, he commanded none here. Sherlock would do as he pleased and he could talk until he was blue in the face, it wouldn't do any good.

"You said you'd had close calls before? How often?"  
"I am no addict Mycroft-"

"How. Often."

Holmes the younger sank back against the pillows. Now there was hesitation, the same sort when he'd used Mycroft's things without asking.

"Only.. twice before. It's not so difficult-"

"I assume you'll persist in this foolishness."

He tilted his head, confused.

"Yes I suppose I will."

"You'll make me a list."

"Excuse me?"  
"Everytime. I want a list, on your person so I know exactly what was taken and how much."

"Do you honestly expect me to-"

"You will do it because if you don't I'll force you into rehab and turn you into the police."

Sherlock's eyes hardened.

"You're threatening me?"

"No. I am swearing an oath. I want a list, everytime you shoot up, every time you smoke. Is that clear?"

"But-"

"Is. That. Clear."

Sullen silence. And then a sharp nod and he turned away.

 **This was the first time and still there were more to come.**

Even while he rose in the government, Sherlock sank farther into his habit. He was very fond of heroine but continued to insist he was no addict. Cocaine was thrown into the mix, his brother often claiming it brought him complete clarity and assisted him in his goals.

As he gained more power, Mycroft often used it to keep tabs on his little brother. After the third list, he abused it completely. He put details on Sherlock, which were just as quickly lost. He had camera's placed in Baker street, which Sherlock found and destroyed. He was stopped at every turn, foiled after every plot was devised. But Sherlock wasn't the only one who could be stubborn. With dogged persistence, he kept meticulous track of his brother's schedule, his habits. Anyone who came into contact with him received a visit from someone under Mycroft's control. Background checks, possible weak points and threat assessments were made on each and every person. There was nothing Mycroft did not know, no one he would not press to know exactly how far gone his baby brother was.

Just before the fourth list, Sherlock met a man. He was an Inspector with Scotland Yard, a Mr. Gregory Lestrade. Sherlock was coked out but his deductions were on point per usual. And Lestrade, perhaps having more sense than anyone other officer, actually listened. The case was solved, he was pleasantly surprised and Sherlock had a new fascination.

 **The fifth list had been… unsettling.** Mycroft had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. Sherlock was doing.. Better. He'd gone and found himself a very loyal goldfish, solved a few cases and overall was far less worrying than he'd been in past years. Than the entire Moriarty debacle occurred. He was away, in danger constantly and after his return, was left unsteady.

John Watson went off and got himself married. Miss Hooper was engaged to an imbecile. Even Lestrade had survived in his absence. He ought to have looked after him. He ought to have warned John, or mentioned it to Lestrade or even sent Mrs. Hudson to fuss and putter around. This was more than a dangerous night, this was the witching hour.

And Mycroft had failed him, again.

He deserved Sherlock's anger. Even Watson's disappointment. He was the elder brother, he _was_ the government and Sherlock, in the end, would do as he pleased. There was no putting a stop to it, only suffering the painful after effects.

 **So when he was forced to enter the plane, to watch his brother so near death and leaving him powerless, Mycroft tried to gain some semblance of control.** He sneered. He scoffed. He chided and let John grow angry. He let Sherlock play at being pirates and detective and a hero.

Then he asked him for the list.


End file.
